


for better, for worse

by stammiviktor



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (and a few others), A Little Bit Crack-y, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Honeymoon Phase Viktor/Yuuri, M/M, Post-Canon, Supportive Katsuki Yuuri, The Feltsman-Baranovskaya Wedding (Take Two), Viktor Has Abandonment Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 22:57:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15761442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stammiviktor/pseuds/stammiviktor
Summary: Yakov quirks an eyebrow. “Vitya, we are not having some grand ceremony."“It doesn’t have to be grand! But the registration office? Signing some papers? Where is the romance in that?”or: The Trials and Tribulations of Viktor Nikiforov, Six-Time World Champion and Wedding Planner Extraordinaire.





	for better, for worse

**Author's Note:**

> As always, fifty thousand thank yous to Rachel ([Chrome](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrome/pseuds/Chrome/works) on ao3 and [catalists](http://http://catalists.tumblr.com/) on tumblr) for putting up with my whining about writer's block, incessant doudecuple texting (yes I did just google that), and reading all 18k of this in fits and starts for the past month. Rachel, I am so, so grateful for all of your advice and ideas and support, ily <3
> 
> Also, today is the one-year anniversary of my very first Yuri on Ice fic. I never expected that I would keep falling further in love with this show, and I am so grateful that it's given me the opportunity to start writing again. 
> 
> I'd also like to thank Mamma Mia (both one and two) for bookending my writing process for this fic.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

On a Tuesday the week after Worlds, Viktor enters the rink to discover that he’s won fifteen hundred rubles. And that’s not even the best part of his day.

“ _When?!”_

“No one knows!” Mila exclaims. “He just walked in, announced it, and went back into his office.”

“He couldn’t have waited for me to get here?”

“Maybe if you didn’t show up an hour late with sex hair,” Yuri grumbles, fishing through his wallet and pulling out a five hundred ruble note. He smacks it into Viktor’s hand with a scowl, then does the same for Mila.

“Where’s Georgi? He owes us too.”

There’s a warm arm around Viktor’s waist. “He just retired, love, remember?” Yuuri’s brow is raised but his smile is gentle, always just a bit more patient than Viktor deserves.

“Well so did I! We can have him mail a check to Mila and I, then.” Viktor grins. “And you, _Yuuuuri?_ Don’t think you’re off the hook either.”

Yuuri blinks, looking up at Viktor with the most adorably baffled expression. “Vitya, we’re married.”

“Yes.”

“We have joint checking accounts.”

“So? It’s the principle of the thing, darling. You, Georgi, and Yura had no faith in the power of love. Mila and I did.”

Mila shrugs. “Actually, I just walked in on them kissing in his office.”

Yuri looks aghast. “Hey! That’s cheating!”

“Yura, you live with them.”

“ _Lived._ I moved out, I’m eighteen, remember?”

“Yeah, as of a week ago. Pretty sure this has been going on longer than that.”

“Whatever.”

Viktor breaks his attention from Mila and Yuri when he sees another five hundred ruble note hanging in front of his face. There’s a familiar, warm breath on the side of his neck and he gulps.

“I will give you this under one condition.”

“Oh?” Viktor squeaks, eyes blown wide. “What’s that?”

“You buy me ice cream with it. The place down the street, with the triple fudge sundae.”

“Deal.”

“Hm.” Yuuri presses a kiss to Viktor’s neck with smiling lips. “I thought that would be harder.”

“It’s the off season.”

The best part of the off season, by Viktor’s measure, is being able to indulge his husband in anything he wants. They’ve already had katsudon three times since returning—they took gold and silver at Worlds, so that’s two right there, and then another to celebrate Viktor’s final competition. All completely necessary. He might be able to milk it out longer, if he’s clever enough.

“Aren’t you going to get sick of it?” Yuuri had asked the night before as they scrubbed their dishes clean. “We’ll be in Hasetsu in less than a week and you _know_ my mom will have some waiting for us.”

Viktor had gasped and responded, “I could never get sick of katsudon!” and then, just in case he was too subtle, kissed _his_ katsudon straight on the mouth. The dish soap went everywhere.

But off season or not, they still wake up at six and trudge to the rink (slightly delayed because Yuuri’s hair is so adorably disheveled in the morning and Viktor can't just let that slide). They will take a three-week rest once they arrive in Japan, but Yuuri noticed a few kinks in his quad lutz at Worlds and wants to work them out before he forgets.

Yuri does the same, but for the flip instead. A pair of workaholics, the both of them, though Viktor supposes he has little room to talk. The way they help each other out on the ice, though, Viktor almost doesn’t need to be there. He calls out, “tighter!” or “more delay!” every now and then to feel like he’s not totally slacking, but Yuuri knows what he needs to fix.

It’s strange, to have no reason to be out there on the ice. His own quad loop could use some work. It was shaky at Worlds, the weak point in an otherwise flawless, gold-medal-winning farewell, but he’s struck by the realization that he doesn’t need to fix it. In fact, he probably shouldn’t ever attempt a quad again, given the dull, warning ache in his knees that pops up whenever he lands a jump or goes down on his husband. He doesn’t want to give either of those up, but he’s thirty, which is as old in skater years as Makkachin is in dog years.

He’s not as old as Yakov, though, and he thanks god every morning for each strand of hair on his head. Still, if Lilia managed to get over Yakov’s half-head of hair, Viktor figures Yuuri won’t up and leave him the moment his hairline starts to recede.

“So,” Viktor begins, bent over his elbows at the side of the rink. “Have you set a date yet?”

“You’re rushing the takeoff!” Yakov calls out to his student, then leans up against the rink next to Viktor. He shrugs. “We just decided to go to the registration office whenever it’s convenient.”

“You _what?”_ Viktor cries, pushing off the rink wall and whirling to face his former coach. “You can’t do that!?”

At center ice, Yuri and Yuuri have frozen just before takeoff and turned to face their coaches.

Yakov quirks an eyebrow. “Vitya, we are not having some grand ceremony.”

“It doesn’t have to be grand,” Viktor protests, throwing his hands in the air. “But the registration office? Signing some _papers?_ Where is the romance in that?”

“Lilia is not one for romance. Neither am I, for that matter.”

“Untrue. 2004. You bought her a bouquet of sunflowers for your twentieth anniversary, then took her to the ballet and that fancy restaurant where you got engaged.”

Yakov’s eyes go wide. “How do you remember that?”

Viktor waves a hand. “Not important. What’s _important_ is that you don’t make the same mistake twice.”

“Vitya!” Yuuri hisses. Viktor and Yakov snap their heads to find their skaters just on the other side of the boards.

Yuri looks utterly horrified. “Are you seriously trying to talk him out of it?”

“What? No, why would you…? You don’t understand. They’re trying to get married at the registration office.”

Yuri shrugs. “What’s wrong with that?”

“That’s how they did it the first time! No party, no pictures, no dress, nothing.”

“I am not planning a wedding, Vitya,” Yakov grumbles.

“Well, lucky for you, you won’t have to. I happen to be great at planning weddings. And I suddenly have a lot more free time.”

Yakov pinches the bridge of his nose. “Vitya…”

“In case you forgot,” Yuri interrupts, “you’re about to fuck off to Japan for a month.”

“I can plan while I’m there! They’ve waited, what, twelve years? I think they can wait a little longer.”

“This better not turn into some grand spectacle, Vitya.”

Hope flutters in Viktor’s chest. “Is that a yes?”

“Humph,” Yakov replies, crossing his arms over his chest.

Viktor has known Yakov for over twenty years, and lived with him for almost a third of that time. He speaks better Yakov than anyone.

And that was definitely a yes.

…

The Katsuki-Nikiforov wedding had been one for the ages.

They had the ceremony on the beach on a gorgeous morning in mid-May, surrounded by family, friends, and almost the entirety of the elite international figure skating community. Their first kiss as husbands tasted of seasalt and the red-bean pastries they both snuck from Yu-topia’s kitchen before the ceremony. Viktor remembers pulling back eventually, their lips parting, and opening his eyes to find his Yuuri’s lovely smile outshining the sun. They walked hand in hand back down the aisle to the sweet, humming melody of the string quartet and Makkachin’s happy barking, carried with them on an ocean breeze.

(Viktor had desperately wanted to release a flock of seagulls the moment they were declared husbands. His fiancé had not agreed.

“But Yuuri, they’re a symbol of our love!”

“They are loud, Vitya. And mean. And smelly, and they _poop._ We’re already having our wedding on the beach, we’re probably going to have too many seagulls as it is.” He patted Viktor’s cheek. “We can just get doves if you would like.”

“Doves? So cliché, Yuuri, where is the _symbolism?”_

Of course, objectively, Yuuri had been right. Viktor had pouted a little anyway, and Yuuri had made it up to him that night.)

And then came the reception back at the inn, the entirety of Yu-topia bursting with celebration and laughter and some of the best food Viktor had tasted in his life. He picked each course with great care, working with Hiroko to hire the best caterers in the prefecture (because there is no way they would let her be busy cooking for her own son’s wedding). The cake, too, was something to behold—he and Yuuri hadn’t been able to pick a favorite flavor, so they got five tiers with five flavors and called it a day.

Viktor had made sure to purchase a near unlimited supply of brut champagne, for old time’s sake. To his utter delight, his new husband had indulged him by downing ten glasses over the course of three hours and treating him to the kind of dance that made Viktor wish they could leave for their honeymoon right that very second.

By the end of the night, their wedding had been featured on the Instagram feeds of at least twenty-five professional skaters. Phichit alone posted nearly fifty pictures and ten videos. During the weeks afterward, on the rare occasion that Viktor took a break from being railed by his husband, he would open his Twitter notifications to find two thousand people had mentioned him with links to Buzzfeed articles titled something like: “31 Beautiful Details You Might Have Missed From The Katsuki-Nikiforov Wedding.”

 **sQuad Lutz  
** @squadlutz  
who planned @v-nikiforov and #yuurikatsuki’s wedding and can i pls hire them oh my god???

 **Viktor Nikiforov** ✓  
@v-nikiforov  
sorry @squadlutz, I’m busy honeymooning with my beautiful husband and am not for hire at this time. but thank you for the support!

 **sQuad Lutz  
** @squadlutz  
@v-nikiforov !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

It’s still technically true, Viktor thinks—he _isn’t_ for hire, because Yakov isn’t paying him. This isn’t the first time Viktor has done something _pro bono,_ although he supposes that Yuuri’s family more than paid his coaching fee in katsudon, dog food, and use of the banquet room for nearly eight months.

After all these years, and after so thoroughly beating the odds stacked against them, Yakov and Lilia deserve something better than a civil ceremony with a couple of witnesses. And so, fresh out of the onsen with a belly (yet again) full of katsudon, Viktor sits down with a notebook, opens Pinterest, and gets to work.

… 

“Vitya?”

“Hi Yakov!”

“Is everything okay?”

Viktor frowns. “Yes. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Vitya, it’s…” Yakov pauses, “one in the morning in Japan.”

“Two, actually.”

“How reassuring.”

Viktor shrugs, glancing around Yu-topia’s abandoned dining room, the usually-bustling space lit only by a few beams of moonlight and the glow of his laptop. “I couldn’t sleep.”

A long sigh filters through the phone speaker. “Should I be concerned?”

It’s a fair question, Viktor supposes. Yakov had caught Viktor reviewing practice footage in the middle of the night enough times to be wary of Viktor’s occasional bouts of insomnia. It’s fair, but:

“I’m fine, Yakov. Just excited! I called because we need to pick a date.”

Yakov sighs his long-suffering sigh once more. “Lilia is here. I’m putting you on speaker.”

The phone crackles. Viktor waits.

“Vitya,” she greets, and Viktor isn’t sure if it’s the late hour but her voice sounds softer than normal, folding around the edges of his name. He smiles.

“Hi, Lilia.”

“I hear you have hijacked our wedding.”

A laugh bubbles up his throat. “It’s for your own good.”

“A civil ceremony would be more than sufficient.”

“Is that our bar now? _Sufficient?_ Where is your ambition, Lilia Ivanovna? Six years in your home, and I never once saw a picture from your wedding.”

“A hopeless romantic,” Yakov mutters to his ex-wife-slash-fiancée, and Viktor beams.

“My Yuuri says that too. Now, I was thinking early June…”

“Hmm,” Lilia muses. There’s the faint sound of a page flipping. “We are free the first. It’s a Saturday.”

Something warm curls up in Viktor’s stomach. He had expected that to be harder. “The first is great!” He does not have to check his own calendar to know he and Yuuri will be free.

“Viktor Mikhailovich,” Lilia begins, her tone as stern as if they were in the studio. Viktor’s spine straightens out of reflex. “Yakov and I have discussed it, and agreed to budget two hundred thousand rubles for this wedding. Not a kopek more. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Lilia Ivanovna.”

Two hundred thousand will not be enough for what he has planned, Viktor knows, but it’s no matter. He lived in their home for six years for criminally low rent, back when he couldn’t afford anything more. Yakov has spent the past twenty years looking after Viktor to an extent that far exceeded the terms outlined in his coaching contract. His hypertension is probably at least a third of Viktor’s fault.

 _Two hundred thousand,_ Viktor scoffs, and he thinks Yuuri will agree that a little over three thousand dollars is an absurd budget for a wedding. So, if it’s alright with his husband, Viktor will just overspend and call the difference a wedding present.

“June first, then?”

“June first,” Yakov replies, and he hears Lilia hum her agreement in the background. “Try to get some sleep, Vitya.”

“I will. See you in a few weeks.”

“Alright. Goodnight.”

The line goes dead and Viktor sets his phone on the table, turning to his laptop. He does not notice how much time has passed until he hears soft footsteps coming down the stairs. The clock on his computer reads _2:39 am._ Yuuri appears in the doorway, his eyes half-lidded and bleary from sleep.

“Hi,” Viktor greets, little knots of guilt forming in his stomach as he sees how tired his husband looks.

Yuuri crosses the room, his bare feet padding across the tatami, and stops behind Viktor. Open on the screen is an article in Russian about the best catering services in St. Petersburg.

Warm fingers thread through the hair at the base of Viktor’s scalp. He shivers.

“Come to bed, Vitya,” Yuuri urges, his voice low and scratchy from sleep. “Makkachin misses you.”

“Mm,” Viktor hums, leaning his head back into Yuuri’s hand. “Just Makkachin?”

Yuuri’s lips press a soft kiss to his temple. “Your poor husband, too.”

“Ah,” Viktor whispers. “I was just finishing up something…”

“It will be there in the morning.” Yuuri shuts the laptop, the room suddenly pitch black to Viktor’s eyes. Yuuri takes his hand. “Alright?”

“Alright,” Viktor agrees, and follows his husband to sleep.

…

“No fucking way.”

“Yura! Please, you’re our only hope.”

“There is no way in _hell_ I’m getting involved in this circus you’re about to throw, Old Man.”

Viktor sighs, wedging his phone between his ear and his shoulder, and glances down at the box of panko and package of pork cutlets Yuuri has just placed in their shopping cart. “What if we invited you over for katsudon tomorrow night?”

Yuuri fixes Viktor with a quizzical look. They have a stack of Japanese candy and a box of gifts from Hiroko and Yuuko they’d brought Yuri back from Hasetsu, so they were already planning on inviting him for dinner tomorrow. The cutlets in their cart are enough for three.

There’s a brief pause on Yuri’s end. “You have to help me with my quad flip, too. I’m still fucking up the landing.”

“Yura, it’s the beginning of the off season. Take a break, go see a movie—”

“Do you want my help or not?”

Viktor pushes the cart along to the dairy aisle and watches his husband squint at the Cyrillic labels on the milk. It’s adorable. “Alright, deal. Katsudon and the flip.”

“Good. Now what do you want?”

“You know Yakov’s address book? The black leather one with the little tabs on the side?”

“Uh…”

“Just trust me, he has one. It’s in his desk at the house, second drawer on the left. I need you to take a picture of a few pages for me.”

“In case you forgot, I don’t _live there_ anymore.”

“Oh come now, Yura, I know you still spend a few nights a week there.”

“I haven’t had a chance to move all of my stuff to the apartment yet,” Yuri grumbles. “That’s all.”

Viktor trails behind Yuuri to the produce aisle, where his husband holds up two heads of lettuce. Viktor points to the better looking one, and Yuuri places it gently in a bag.

“Can you do this for me, Yura?”

“What do you even want his address book for?”

“I’m inviting some of his friends…” He pauses. “And his family.”

“You’re _what?!”_

Yuri’s screech is loud enough that Yuuri hears it and snorts a laugh.

“Just his mother and brother.”

“Oh my god, he’s going to kill you.”

“Trust me, I’ve thought this through.”

He has, extensively. Yuuri and Viktor are about half of each other’s impulse control at any given moment, and they talked this one through at length.

“You haven’t and it’s going to be a disaster. I’m _so in._ But you can’t tell him I helped you.”

“Okay, it will be our secret.”

“I can’t believe I’m going to meet _Yakov’s mom.”_

Viktor has met her once, and he’ll never forget it. “I think the two of you will get along, actually.” His brother, though…

“I’ll get the numbers tonight. Katsudon tomorrow. I’ll be there at seven.”

“Alright. And I’ll come in on Friday to help with the flip.”

“Thanks. Later.”

“Bye.”

Viktor and Yuuri push the cart to the checkout aisle and begin placing their groceries on the belt. “We need to clean the sheets in the guest room,” Yuuri says.

Viktor blinks. “Huh?”

“For Yura. We’ve been gone awhile, we should clean his sheets before tomorrow.”

“Oh, right. Yes. I can do it while you start dinner?”

Yuuri smiles and pecks a kiss to Viktor’s lips. “Thank you.”

…

Viktor first met Elizaveta Leonidovna Feltsman at her husband’s funeral.

At fifteen years old, it had been Viktor’s first funeral—actually, his first religious service of any kind. Everyone had been crying, chanting the same words in Hebrew he did not understand. He remembers being profoundly uncomfortable, sitting with Lilia and watching Yakov grieve from afar, playing with the cuffs of his freshly-ironed suit.

He was introduced to Liza Leonidovna at the gravesite, Yakov’s hand resting firmly on his shoulder. She wore all black, a torn ribbon pinned to her chest, and if she thought it strange that her son should bring his live-in student to his father’s funeral, she said nothing of it.

What she did say was, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

Viktor had laughed along with her and taken it as a compliment, grateful for the reprieve from the somber mood.

Fifteen years later, and she has not recovered an ounce of tact.

“Tell me, Vitya, is my son still wearing that god-awful fedora?”

Next to Viktor on the couch, Yuuri stifles a laugh that they both hope the speaker phone doesn’t pick up.

“Yes, he is.”

“Well, please inform Yasha, since he is apparently too busy to invite his own mother himself _,_ that I will not allow him to get married wearing that hideous hat. If he wants to cover up his Khrushchev-looking head he can wear a toupée. I still have his father’s, they even had the same hair color. I will bring it down for the wedding, yes? Tell him that for me.”

“Yes, Liza Leonidovna,” Viktor replies. He would sooner sharpen his John Wilson Pattern 99 customized gold blades with a rock.

“June first, you said?”

“Yes, Liza Leonidovna.”

“Alright. I will inform Sasha and his family. Goodbye, Vitya.”

“Goodbye.”

The second he hangs up the phone, he turns to Yuuri with horror dawning in his eyes. “Should I be looking into toupées?”

Yuuri snorts. “No, Vitya.”

“I’m serious! There’s no way they have them in my color, I should grow my hair out now, and then cut it and pay someone to make one out of that.”

“I’m pretty sure they sell grey toupées, Vitya.”

Viktor gasps. “Yuuri, my hair is not _grey!”_

Yuuri just laughs again and stands from the couch, leaning down to press a kiss to the whorl of thinning hair at the crown of Viktor’s head.

“You’ll always be perfect the way you are,” Yuuri insists. “Now come help me with dinner. Yura will be here soon.”

Viktor pads after him into the kitchen, love swirling in his chest.

…

Viktor never really had a plan for telling Yakov. In hindsight, he probably should have.

“My mother, Vitya? My _mother?!”_

“...And your brother.”

“ _Sasha?!”_

Viktor leans up against the doorframe of Yakov’s office at the rink, waiting for his former coach’s face to cycle through red, then purple, then blue before settling back at a nice pale pink.

“You care for them, Yakov.”

“I hardly ever see them!”

“Exactly!”

“Vitya.” Yakov pinches the bridge of his nose and rests his elbow on his desk. “I told you I didn’t want this turning into some big thing.”

“She never forgave you for not inviting her to your first wedding. You _told_ me that.”

“When?” Yakov demands.

Viktor waves a hand. “I don’t know, years ago.”

He’s lying. He can picture it perfectly, the two of them in Yakov’s study, sitting in front of a fireplace nursing their drinks. The vodka had burned Viktor’s throat and loosened Yakov’s tongue. It was barely a month before the divorce.

“She’s ninety, Yakov.”

The coach heaves a sigh and sits back in his chair. “I know.”

Viktor swallows and shifts his weight.  “I just thought… Well. She loves you. I could tell. This might be one of the last opportunities you have to—”

“Viktor Mikhailovich, do _not_ lecture me about my own family.”

His full name in Yakov’s voice stings. It leaves a mark somewhere deep in his chest. “Right. I’m sorry.”

But Yakov just sighs again and says, “Vitya,” stretching out the last syllable in something like an apology. It soothes the ache. “Vitya, you should have asked me first.”

“You would have said no.”

“And you would have done it anyway.”

Viktor blinks. “No. No, I probably would not have.”

Yakov shakes his head. “Even when you are retired, boy, you give me headaches.” But there’s a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, and it’s all so familiar.

“Vitya,” comes a sweet voice from the hallway, and the hair on the back of Viktor’s neck perks up. “Yura is looking for you, he’s demanding help with the fl—” Yuuri rounds the corner and freezes, concern etched in every feature. “Oh. Sorry. Am I…?”

“Not at all, love. I will be there soon. We were just finishing up.” He’s being sincere, and Yuuri relaxes. Yakov stands and rounds his desk, grabbing a notepad and meeting them in the hallway.

“I hope you know you will owe me a year’s supply of blood pressure medication for this, Vitya. She’s demanding to stay with me.”

“She’s… what?”

“When she called, she was furious that I suggested we put her up in a hotel. Sasha’s family, yes, fine, but apparently it’s insulting that I even _suggest_ the same for my _own mother._ ” Yakov snorts. “She and Lilia will be at each other’s throats within minutes.”

“Oh. Well. Maybe—”

“She can stay with us.”

Both Viktor and Yakov whirl around to face Yuuri, wondering if they understood his halting Russian correctly. Yuuri slinks back.

“I mean, if that’s alright with you, but if we convince her that your house is too busy with all of the wedding planning… Well. It’s better than a hotel, right?”

“I love you,” Viktor says, instantly wrapping himself around his husband. “You are so smart. And so _nice,_ Yuuri—”

“Are you sure, Katsuki? She can be a lot to deal with.”

But Yuuri has that look in his eyes that he often gets before a program—so determined that even a tsunami couldn’t sway him off course. He nods and takes Viktor’s hand. “We can handle it.”

Viktor isn’t so confident, but so long as Yuuri’s on board it’s a better alternative than Yakov’s mother staying with him and Lilia. He owes Yakov that much.

“You better not have invited any of Lilia’s siblings,” Yakov growls as they make their way down the hallway.

“Yakov!” Viktor exclaims. “Of course not!” There is a difference, Viktor is intimately aware, between strained relationships and complete estrangement. He had to write his own wedding invitations, after all.

“There you are, finally!” Yuri calls when they enter the rink. “I think I figured out what’s wrong with the landing. Viktor, watch me.”

Viktor smiles, nods, and holds tight to Yuuri’s hand. “Ready when you are, Yura.”

…

Yuuri and Viktor’s first wedding anniversary comes one week later.

May 19th: Viktor will remember that date for as long as he lives, his heart skipping a beat every time someone says it out loud. He remembers, vaguely, feeling the same way about December 25th as a child. This is infinitely better.

“You’re so beautiful,” Viktor says, over and over again from the moment they wake up to the moment they fall asleep, exhausted and sweaty and basking in moonlight.

Yuuri _is_ beautiful, every single part of him, and Viktor thinks this everyday—but today it seems important to say it out loud at every opportunity. Yuuri always responds with, “So are you,” and the most lovestruck, radiant smile Viktor has ever seen.

“We are so lucky,” Viktor whispers into the nape of Yuuri’s neck somewhere between rounds two and three.

“The luckiest men in the world,” Yuuri agrees, before surging down to capture Viktor’s mouth in his own.

And to think that, once upon a time, Viktor feared this—but Yuuri and Viktor are different. The _Katsuki-Nikiforovs_ are different. A year of marriage is not a lot, in the grand scheme of things. Yakov and Lilia had twenty two, before the divorce. But a year is the beginning, and they have a lifetime of anniversaries left to celebrate. Viktor knows this in his heart and in his bones.

For dinner, Yuuri made reservations at one of the best-rated (and most expensive) restaurants in the city, just because he remembered Viktor mentioning that he would like to try it. He lets Viktor dress him in the new suit he had tailored, lets Viktor slick back his hair, lets Viktor perch his glasses on his nose. That alone is enough of a gift, in Viktor’s opinion.

The food is delicious, but the company is exquisite.

“We should eat at Michelin-starred restaurants more often,” Yuuri says as he hums in pleasure around a bite of lamb.

“ _Please,_ ” Viktor replies, and then promptly has an epiphany. “Actually, I haven’t decided on the food for the wedding yet. Maybe we could make a few more reservations at a few more restaurants that offer catering. You know. For research.”

“Ah, yes,” Yuuri agrees. “Not at all an excuse to extend our anniversary celebration through the rest of the week.”

Viktor is grinning so hard his face aches. “Of course not. Not at all.”

By the end of the week, they have decided on all four courses for the reception. They’re both a bit afraid to check their bank statement, but Viktor has never eaten so well in his life and they have the best conversations over those meals, the love in their eyes illuminated by the candlelight.

“We can’t do this again next year.”

“Oh no, of course not.”

(They will absolutely do this again next year.)

…

The Feltsmans arrive by train from Gatchina four days before the wedding. The arrivals section of Baltiysky Station bustles with locals and tourists and everyone in between, making it difficult to spot their guests. Fifteen years is a long time, long enough to forget appearances altogether, but the second they come into view Viktor knows they’re Yakov’s family.

Liza Leonidovna is a woman of average height with a louder-than-average voice. She calls out to her youngest the second she sees him and Viktor swears the entire station stops, turns, and stares at the ancient woman with wiry grey hair making a beeline toward them, a ratty old suitcase bumping along behind her. Viktor prays she didn’t pack the toupée.

“Hello, Mama,” Yakov greets in a borderline-cautious voice Viktor has never heard him use on anyone else.

She appraises the three of them with sharp eyes half-hidden beneath bushy brows before grabbing her son in a bear-hug and planting three kisses on his cheeks. Then she steps back, composed completely.

“Yasha,” she nods. “You look well.”

“So do you, Mama. I trust your trip was uneventful?”

She scoffs and waves her hand. Viktor catches the glint of a simple golden ring. “These things never are, Yasha, you know this. Just as I boarded, this muscular young woman—or perhaps a quite effeminate man, you never know these days—tried to take my suitcase!”

“Mama,” comes a deep sigh from the approaching man Viktor recognizes as Yakov’s brother. A woman stands at his side. “She was trying to help you put it up in the compartment.”

Yakov’s mother scoffs. “Well then I _told her_ that I was perfectly capable of doing it myself. But did she listen? No!”

“You’ll have to forgive our mother,” Sasha excuses, looking to Viktor and Yuuri. “She’s just a bit worked up from the trip.”

“Oh, bite me, Aleksandr Vasilievich.”

Sasha ignores her entirely, extending a hand for Viktor and Yuuri to shake. “And now that I’ve been properly introduced… You must be Viktor, all grown up! And you are Yuuri?”

Yuuri nods. “It is nice to meet you,” he replies, his Russian clipped and carefully polished.

Sasha is larger and burlier than his younger brother—necessary, Viktor supposes, for his past career as a professional ice hockey player. His hairline is as bad as Yakov’s.

“This is my wife, Natasha,” he introduces. The woman at his side looks to be a few years younger than her husband, with soft eyes and grey-blonde hair. She shakes their hands as well.

“Nice to meet you,” she greets with a gentle smile. “Katya and her family were not able to come, but she told us to tell Uncle Yakov she wishes him the best.”

Viktor wonders briefly if Natasha gets along with her mother-in-law any better than Lilia did.

A large hand claps Viktor on the back, making him jump. “I can’t believe I get to meet my favorite hockey player once again!”

Yuuri blinks in confusion. “Actually, Viktor is a figure skater.”

Everyone laughs, including Viktor, which he feels a bit bad about.

“He’s talking about the other Viktor Nikiforov, love.”

“I’m talking about gold at the _1956 Olympics,_ what a match, what a career, too short though—”

“Our Viktor has been far more successful,” Yakov interrupts, waving his hand at his brother’s antics. “How many Olympic golds do you have again, Vitya?”

Viktor beams. His chest feels warm. “Two.”

(Though secretly, it’s his bronze from Pyeongchang last year he is the most proud of.)

They part ways at the station, Yakov taking his brother and sister-in-law to the hotel and Viktor and Yuuri escorting Liza Leonidovna home to their apartment. The relative silence on the drive back is not awkward, but not particularly comfortable, either. Yuuri looks about as nervous as Viktor feels. Perhaps he is regretting making this offer.

Their apartment is pristine, because sometimes when Yuuri is nervous, he deep-cleans. Other times, he will leave stacks of dirty dishes on the coffee table and a week’s worth of dirty socks in a pile on the bedroom floor. Luckily, that is not the case this time around.

“This is Makkachin,” Viktor introduces, watching carefully to ensure he dog doesn’t jump on Yakov’s mother and break her. “Say hi, Makka!”

 _Woof!_ Makka says. Viktor grins.

“See? She likes you already!”

“I do not typically like large dogs. But this one seems well-behaved.”

Viktor isn’t sure if he’s supposed to say thank you or not. He goes with _not._

“Your room is just down the hall,” Yuuri informs her. God, Viktor could listen to him speak Russian all day. “I can show you there, if you like?”

(Yuri had been a bit growly when he noticed his spare toothbrush, pajamas, and phone charger missing from the not-quite-guest-room a few days ago.

“I should charge her rent,” he grumbled as he flopped down on the couch to play Street Fighter with Yuuri.

“You mean _we_ should charge her rent,” Yuuri corrected without taking his eyes off the screen. Yuri just shrugged.

“Whatever. Prepare to die, Katsudon.”)

Viktor trails behind Yuuri and Yakov’s mother like a puppy as they head down the hallway.

As Yuuri places her suitcase on the bed, she turns to him and says, “Your Russian is pretty good, for a foreigner.”

Viktor freezes in the doorway and lets out an audible hiss. Yuuri, however, takes it in stride.

“And you have quite a lot of hair, for a Feltsman.”

Yakov’s mother barks a laugh and Yuuri blushes scarlet.

“I like him, Vitya. You have good taste.”

Viktor leans against the doorframe, his eyes shining. Yuuri averts his gaze by folding down the bed, but Viktor can see his cheeks flushing redder by the second. “He is adorable, isn’t he?"

“You both are, dear. If you were not like a son to my Yasha, and if I were sixty years younger—and if you were not both homosexuals...”

“Oh my god,” Yuuri groans, nearly burying his face in the duvet.

Now, there’s a _lot_ to unpack in that sentence, but Viktor’s mind keeps getting tripped up on _like a son_ and refusing to go any further.

“I’m going to make dinner,” Viktor says instead. “Is chicken alright?”

“I’m not picky, dear. Give me a few moments to freshen up, won’t you?”

“Of course.”

The second they close the door behind them, Yuuri buries his reddened face in Viktor’s shirt and repeats, “ _Oh my god._ ”

Viktor chuckles. “This woman made _Yakov.”_

“I… don’t know if I’m surprised or not.”

“Me neither,” he replies, and presses a kiss to the top of Yuuri’s head before dragging him to the kitchen to make dinner.

…

“Yasha was quite a coach to you, wasn’t he?”

It’s late in the evening, past dinner, but the summer sun has barely begun to sink over the horizon. Liza Leonidovna Feltsman stands by their bookshelf-turned-medal-case, running a finger over Viktor’s five-year winning streak. Even with the golden sunlight pouring in horizontally through the windows, there’s not a speck of dust to be seen, all thanks to Yuuri’s anxiety-driven cleaning neurosis.

“He was.” Viktor frowns. “It’s weird to think that he isn’t, anymore.”

She waves a dismissive hand. “He’ll always be your coach. He has never been able to just turn off things like that.” Her hand hovers over the 2014 Grand Prix Final. “So much gold. A very successful career, no?”

Viktor watches her carefully from the couch, his arm slung over his husband’s shoulders. “Some of those are Yuuri’s.”

At the exact same time, Yuuri says, “Vitya is the most decorated male figure skater in history.”

“Hmm,” she says. She has stopped in front of the Olympics now. She points to Vancouver 2010. “This should have been a silver. You delivered beautiful performances, but your PCS was inflated to put you over the skater from China. And I seem to remember an under-rotated toe loop that was scored as clean. But Sochi, on the other hand, you completely earned.”

Viktor blinks, sitting up straight with his eyes blown wide. “Wait, wh— I mean— you’re right, but—”

“With all due respect, Madam,” Yuuri begins, low and steady and _oh,_ Viktor knows that voice, “Vitya deserved every point he got in Vancouver. His Mussorgsky free skate was stunning. And Zhou performed well, but his Turandot was not one of the best I’ve seen, and it was not the cleanest he’d skated it.” Yuuri’s hand is clenched in a fist on top of Viktor’s knee. His eyes narrow. “And the toe loop _was_ rotated. The close-up they showed on Match was from a bad angle.”

Viktor doesn’t have any air left in his lungs. He’d take in more, but he’s too busy memorizing every detail of his husband in that moment. His heart pounds in his chest and his face aches from grinning. He has never been more grateful for Yuuri’s college Russian minor than in this moment.

Liza Leonidovna laughs. “You make some interesting points. Now on the other hand, _you_ , Yuuri Katsuki— you have been underscored on PCS since day one.”

Yuuri straightens, his wide eyes flicking to Viktor, who only smiles wider.

“Yes! That’s exactly what I’ve always said! Wait, wait, keep going. I want to hear more.”

Yuuri groans and Liza Leonidovna, unexpected expert in all things figure skating, smiles back at Viktor and indulges him.

…

It is not, of course, a traditional bachelor party. No one RSVPs to a seventy-two-year-old curmudgeon’s stag night expecting wild debauchery—there would be no bar-hopping, no drunken tour of the city’s landmarks, no strippers, and _certainly_ no body shots.

But still, no one expected Lilia.

Viktor knows he has no room to complain. If the Katsuki-Nikiforov wedding was iconic, the preceding bachelor party was downright _legendary_ —and yes, party singular, because their wedding had two bachelors instead of one with a group of mostly-male friends shared between them. Besides, a ‘last night of freedom’ held absolutely zero appeal to either groom unless he could share it with the other.

(They rented out half a floor’s worth of rooms in a hotel in Fukuoka and took the local nightlife by storm. Practically the entire field of men’s singles figure skating descended on club after club, drinking and dancing and singing at the top of their lungs with Viktor and Yuuri at the center of it all.

“Hello, handsome,” Viktor had cooed into Yuuri’s ear as he grinded on him from behind. With the mass of bodies pulsing around them, Yuuri’s body felt like an anchor. “Do you come here often?”

Yuuri stretched his head back against Viktor’s shoulder and his mouth into a sultry grin. “Careful,” he hummed. “I’ll be a married man soon.”

“What a coincidence,” Viktor laughed, “so will I. What do you say to one last night of fun, beautiful?”

“With you?” Yuuri smirked, capturing Viktor’s earlobe in his teeth and sending a chill down both of their spines. “ _Always.”_

By the fourth and final club, the world was spinning and Viktor hung on Yuuri for support. He didn’t notice the pole at first, not until Yuuri’s warmth disappeared from his side and he begged Chris to help find his fiancé and finally, _finally_ he spotted him, half-naked with the brass pole between his thighs, every muscle flexing with coordinated exertion.

And then he winked at Viktor, _winked,_ and proceeded to give him the best show of his life.

Viktor only found out later that the club does not typically feature pole dancing. Yuuri would have had to call ahead. _His_ Yuuri would have had to dial a number and request this in his polite, native Japanese. He would have had to give his credit card information and pay for it. He would have had to _rehearse._

It was the only time Viktor has ever been grateful for Yuuri’s under-estimation of his own popularity. Why would any bystanders pay attention to some sloppy, amateur pole dancer? Surely no one would recognize him, with his beautiful doe-eyes and his thighs of steel and his body that moves like music, at a Japanese gay bar. No matter that the media has dubbed him both ‘Japan’s Ace’ and a ‘gay icon’. No matter at all.

So Yuuri was a bit shocked to find that some videos of that night made it online, all posted to fan accounts. Everyone else was shocked there weren’t more.

Yes, legendary indeed.)

Yakov’s bachelor party—and, Viktor supposes, Lilia’s bachelorette—is nothing like Fukuoka the year before. They practically kidnap Yakov from the rink once the sun begins to set; he only protests until he recognizes the route to his favorite bar. Mila insists that she should not be excluded on the basis of gender. Lilia seconds. Viktor is almost afraid that Yakov’s mother will call him next and demand to be included, but mercifully that doesn’t happen.

The bar still looks the same as it did when Yakov first brought Viktor fifteen-some years ago. Unlike its patrons—men with hairlines as bad as Yakov’s who talk about the Soviet era as if Sputnik launched yesterday—the establishment hasn’t aged a day. Second-hand cigar smoke fills Viktor’s lungs and he coughs.

They claim the corner booth and order a handle of vodka and eight shot glasses to start out. By eleven p.m., they have the bar and the bartender entirely to themselves and Viktor only feels a little, eensy, teensy bit bad about scaring off the other customers. They make it up to the bartender by buying more vodka.

Their party includes, in order of decreasing alcohol tolerance: Sasha, Lilia, Yakov, Mila, Yuuri, Viktor, Yuri, and Georgi. Shot after shot they grow louder and louder and Viktor wonders, as the world tilts around him and laughter bubbles from his lips, why they don’t do this more often.

“I’d never want to be your student,” Sasha says, barking a laugh and elbowing his brother in the ribs after Mila’s third anecdote about Yakov’s coaching style. “You’re a fucking hardass.”

Yakov’s eyes go wide and he throws his hands up in the air. “Only because they never listen to me!”

Mila snickers. “Georgi listened to you.”

“Not always!” Georgi swears. “Remember when I was fifteen? You told me I couldn’t wear makeup, and I _did._ ”

Yuri snorts. “Oh, edgy.”

Yakov waves a hand. “That was Vitya’s fault, he started it.”

Viktor gasps, lurching forward from where he was leaning back against Yuuri’s chest. “It was not! I started wearing makeup because of _Georgi._ He gave me his old eyeshadow palette! My favorite shade was ‘gunmetal’.”

Mila’s eyes narrow as she turns on Georgi. “Does that mean,” she groans, “that his _Sound of Silence_ exhibition was your fault?"

Yuuri makes a strangled noise from behind Viktor, but says nothing.

Viktor waves a hand. “I would have skated to that anyhow. But I suppose the black eyeshadow really did tie the whole performance together…”

“Oh god,” Lilia mutters, and tips back another shot. “I had repressed that memory entirely.”

Viktor simply sighs. “I wish I’d skated it once the ISU started allowing songs with lyrics. It would have been so much better with the words.”

Of course, Georgi breaks out in song that very moment, and Viktor is right there with him. Georgi switches to harmony. Sasha, surprisingly, chimes in on line three.

Yuri looks like he might explode. “Oh my _god_ I’m going to throw this bottle at your heads,” he threatens.

Yakov pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fifteen years later and I still can’t be rid of it.”

“We are changing the locks, Yasha,” Lilia decides.

Viktor and Yuri both gasp. “You wouldn’t!” Viktor protests.

And Yuuri, blessed Yuuri, takes it upon himself to salvage the conversation. “The program was… well choreographed, at least?”

“Yuuri!” Viktor cries. He can read between the lines. “You didn’t like it either?”

Yuuri huffs. “I like everything you’ve ever done, Vitya, you know that—”

“Katsudon, you’re a fucking liar. Tell him the truth.”

Yuuri sighs, a comforting hand rubbing at Viktor’s shoulder blades. “It was a bit… angsty.”

“I was fifteen!”

“So?” Yuri huffs. “I won the senior Grand Prix Final when I was fifteen, asshole.”

“Yes,” Viktor nods. “And you were very angsty while doing it.”

Yuri holds the empty bottle up threateningly once again, but Viktor just laughs.

“So _angsty_ when you drink, Yura.”

“That’s enough, you two,” Yakov grumbles.

From across the table, Mila perks up. “New rules! Every time Yakov uses his coach voice, everyone takes a shot.”

“We are not doing that,” Yakov responds, and everyone, Sasha and Lilia included, raises their glasses simultaneously.

“Coach voice!” they cry in unison, and the table grows louder yet again.

Viktor has seen Yakov drunk before—or at least he thought he had. He’s seen Yakov with his cheeks flushed and his tongue loose, somehow gruffer than before with even less of a filter, but he did not realize that that was only Stage One. Stage Two occurs somewhere past drink number twelve, ushering in a new kind of Yakov entirely.

“I am getting married this weekend,” he says, eyes wide and staring straight ahead.

Lilia groans. “Do not tell me you are having second thoughts.”

(Viktor has watched her match Yakov shot for shot throughout the night. She’s made of skin and bones but barely even tipsy.)

But Yakov just laughs. “How could I have second thoughts? There is nothing to think about!”

“Was that romantic?” Yuuri whispers in Viktor’s ear. It occurs to Viktor that his husband might be having trouble following the rapid-fire Russian being thrown about around him.

“I don’t know,” Viktor mutters. Yuuri’s shoulder is comfortable. So comfortable.

“Before this,” Yakov begins, reaching out to pour himself another glass. Sasha not-so-subtly slides it away, and Yakov hardly looks like he notices. “Before, what did I have? An empty apartment? Some medals that my students earned? _Bah._ I thought, this is alright. I am not happy, but this is alright. And then Yura—” Yakov hiccups, “—moved in and Lilia, you told me, _Yasha, you too."_

Viktor’s chest grows tight. There’s the faintest smile tugging at the corners of Lilia’s mouth and she pats Yakov on the shoulder. Viktor’s eyes flick away.

“Come now, Yasha—”

“Just like that,” Yakov interrupts her with a laugh. “You said it just like that. I didn’t think this would happen back then.” He waves his hands at the booth around them, smiling brightly and looking directly at Yuri. Viktor swallows. “And it was good. It was _good._ But then Yura, all grown up, he wants to move out. And I should move out too, then, but at least we’ll still work together. With Yura. But I’m past seventy. I’ll retire soon, and then what?” He turns to Lilia, eyes wide. “I didn’t want to never see you again.”

“I know all of this already,” she reminds him, but there’s an unprecedented amount of patience in her voice. “And you’re going to regret this in the morning.”

Sasha snorts. “If he remembers it.”

Viktor isn’t sure if it’s the lateness of the hour or the alcohol in his system or Yakov’s speech replaying on a loop in his ears, but none of this quite feels real. Something burns at the base of his throat and knots in his stomach and he blinks over and over again as if that would make it go away. His eyes trace the wood-grain of the tabletop.

Envy is a horrible, terrible, useless emotion, so instead he pretends to feel nothing at all. He’s just not as good at that as normal, with such a high blood-alcohol content.

“Are you ready to go home?” Yuuri asks, his voice low in Viktor’s ear and his hand warm where it strokes circles on Viktor’s forearm. Viktor looks up and back and when the world stops spinning he sees concern written all over Yuuri’s vodka-flushed face. He blinks, slowly, and presses his mouth to Yuuri’s jaw.

“Mhm,” he hums, and he feels cool fingers brushing his bangs from his eyes.

“Okay,” Yuuri nods. “Let’s go home.”

…

There's a table in his mind, set for dinner on a night just like any other. Yakov and Lilia sit across from one another, Viktor in between. There are no words, only the clanking of silverware on china, and everything has already been said. Viktor's own name rings in his ears and tightens in his chest.

Last night, they gathered around a different table with different company, and shattered every silence except the one Viktor carried in his heart. Yakov and Lilia sat side by side, hands likely intertwined between them. Their mouths curled upward at the corners and said ‘Yura' with carefully disguised affection.

He's being dramatic. He knows he's being dramatic, but he wakes up hungover and aching and he can’t help it. His temples throb. The bed is empty.

“Yuuri?” he calls out, wincing at how scratchy his voice sounds. Barely ten seconds pass before Yuuri appears in the doorway, a bottle of blue Gatorade in hand.

“ _Dobroe utro,_ ” he greets, sitting down next to Viktor on the side of the bed. “How do you feel?”

Viktor drags himself up to lean against the headboard. “The morning after our party was worse.”

Yuuri smiles at the memory and places the bottle in Viktor’s hand. “Drink,” he commands, and Viktor may be Yuuri’s coach but their relationship is nothing if not a two-way street. He drinks dutifully.

“And you feel alright?”

Yuuri shrugs. “I didn’t drink that much.”

“Did everyone get home okay? I know Yura didn’t really want to take a cab back to his new place by himself, and...”

Yuuri nods. “He texted around two. He went back with Yakov and LIlia.”

“It seems like everyone had fun.”

“They did. It was exactly what Yakov wanted, I could tell.” Yuuri taps the plastic bottle to cue Viktor to keep drinking. “You did a good job.”

“Mm,” is all Viktor says. He takes another sip. Yuuri’s eyes dart over Viktor’s face, from his jaw to his eyes to his nose to his forehead, and Viktor knows there must be something else on his mind.

“Scoot over,” Yuuri says, and displaces Viktor to the center of the bed, sliding next to him and bringing a gust of cold air under the covers.

“Your legs are _freezing._ ”

“Then warm them up.”

Viktor laughs and lets Yuuri snake his arm around Viktor’s back, pulling him close. Ear pressed to Yuuri’s shoulder, he can hear his husband’s heart beating faster than normal.

He waits. And waits. Until, finally:

“Will you talk to me?”

It’s too early for this, Viktor thinks. He channels every ounce of reassurance in his body into his answer. “I am alright, Yuuri.”

Yuuri hums, and Viktor knows he doesn’t buy it. Goosebumps prickle Viktor’s skin as Yuuri runs his fingertips up and down Viktor’s forearm.

“So, last night?”

He wants Yuuri to keep pushing almost as much as he wants him to stop. “I was a bit drunk, that’s all.” Viktor shrugs. “You know how I get.”

Once, during the summer when Vitya was still _Viktor_ and their relationship still undefined, Viktor got drunk with Toshiya and Minako in the onsen dining room. He spent half the night in his (very sober) pupil’s lap, going on about how beautiful he was on the ice. Then, when Yuuri helped him to bed, he vaguely remembers clinging to his wrist and begging, ‘stay with me?’

(Beijing too, he supposes. He spent the evening in a hot pot restaurant with Yuuri’s old coach after being rejected by his own, sitting next to Yuuri’s best friend— _a_ _nd ex-lover?_ he had wondered—and trying hopelessly to keep up with their inside jokes. He shed his clothes quickly and clung to Yuuri like an octopus.)

Yes, Yuuri knows how he gets. But that’s not what Yuuri focuses on at all.

“I know you always hoped…” he trails off, and even with his mouth mere centimeters from Viktor’s ear the words are still nearly inaudible. Yuuri strokes the back of Viktor’s hand and takes a breath like he’s steeling himself. “I know you always hoped, well, with your own par—”

“I’m happy for Yakov and Lilia,” Viktor interrupts, because he _is_ and that’s important and the last thing he wanted was for Yuuri to take that sentence as far off limits as as it surely would have gone.

“I know you are. That’s not what I meant.” The edges of his words are growing sharp with frustration. He takes a steadying breath, and Viktor almost feels bad. “Just… You don’t have to do this, you know.”

Viktor swallows. “Do what?”

“The wedding. Everything. Worrying about making every little detail perfect.”

“I want to.”

And it’s the truth, yet somehow Yuuri knows there’s more. He sighs again and pulls away, the sudden distance launching Viktor’s heart into his throat. Of course, Yuuri doesn’t go anywhere; he sits cross-legged on the mattress and looks Viktor dead in the eyes. Viktor braces himself.

“They love you. You know that. And you...”

Viktor’s gaze falls to Yuuri’s chest, unable to stand the intensity of his eyes, but Yuuri will not have it. He lifts Viktor’s chin with his fingers, cupping his hand around Viktor’s jaw. Viktor swallows, and Yuuri smiles.

“Darling, you don’t have anything to prove.”

Viktor wonders, sometimes, if there isn’t a target painted on his chest, centered right over his heart; he hardly has to say anything, yet Yuuri hits the bullseye every time. Viktor wants to say something, wants to reply, but his throat is thick and his tongue heavy and he just stares.

“Oh,” he finally manages, but Yuuri smiles back as if he’d recited a sonnet. A bottle of ice-blue liquid appears between them.

“Drink up.”

Viktor laughs, takes the bottle, and downs the rest in one gulp. “Thank you,” he replies, his throat finally unstuck, and he hopes Yuuri knows it’s for more than the electrolytes.

Yuuri tucks Viktor’s bangs behind his ear for the third time that morning. “Of course. And if you ever want to talk...”

From the door comes the sound of someone’s throat clearing.

“Your dog is demanding to be walked.” Liza Leonidovna stands with her arms crossed, Makkachin at her tail looking up at the woman with her tongue and tail wagging expectantly.

“Hm, it is that time, isn’t it,” Viktor replies. “I’ll get dressed.”

Yuuri slides off of the bed, and Viktor mourns the loss of his warmth. “Would you like to come with us, Liza Leonidovna?”

“ _Humph_. Only if you go slowly. I'm not as young as I used to be, dear.”

“Neither is Makka. We go slowly, don't worry.”

“Good.” She leans down and pats Makkachin’s head, to the dog’s utter delight. “We old ladies have to stick together, hm?”

Makkachin barks her agreement and Viktor heads to get changed, stopping when he feels his husband’s hand on his arm.

“Vitya?”

“Hm?”

“Think about what I said, okay?”

“Yes. I will.”

Yuuri smiles and rocks forward to peck a kiss to Viktor’s lips. “I'll go get some breakfast started.”

…

The wire hangers screech against metal as Viktor thumbs through the clothing rack, humming softly to himself. The satin is enviously smooth against his fingertips, and he almost wants to try a few items on himself.

“Oh! This one is… I know it’s not exactly what you’re looking for, but the trim—”

“ _No_ lace, Vitya,” Lilia forbids for the third time since they arrived, her voice snaking out to him from behind the dressing room curtain.

Viktor pouts, putting the dress back on the rack. “You’re taking all the fun out of this.”

“I agreed to this on the condition it was something simple.”

“But you’ve ruled out everything! No lace, no v-necks, no crystals, no _ruffles_ …” Viktor runs his fingers through the ruffles of a particularly beautiful dress, sighs, and moves on.

“All perfectly reasonable requests.”

“‘Simple’ doesn’t have to mean a hospital gown!”

“There is a long way,” Lilia huffs, and behind the curtain Viktor can hear the rustling of fabric, “between _no ruffles_ and a hospital gown. I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”

“I can’t believe I had to find out _two days_ before your wedding that you were just going to wear that blue dress!”

“And what is wrong with my blue dress?”

“You’ve had it since I was twelve.”

“There is no way you remember that.”

“Twelve or thirteen. My point still stands.”

“Since when are you qualified to give fashion advice?”

Viktor gasps, grasping his heart even though he knows Lilia can’t see him. “I have an amazing fashion sense! I model for Marc Jacobs!”

“Yes, and Marc Jacobs sends you your entire wardrobe straight to your door.”

“You saw me wear cargo pants _one time_ …”

“This is not about the cargo pants. This is about the feathers.”

Viktor blinks. “The feathers?”

“Yes. And the mesh. And the sequins, dear _god,_ Vitya, the sequins. You nearly gave every costume designer you ever worked with an aneurysm.”

“Yura wore those costumes last year!”

“Yura still wears leopard print. You are only proving my point.”

“I was a teenager! I think I can be trusted now. You saw my wedding tux, was it not tasteful?”

There’s a pause. He hears the sound of a zipper. “It was very… white.”

“Which makes me all the more qualified to help you pick out your _white_ wedding gown. Now. Are you done yet?”

The curtain slides open with a screech, and Lilia stands with her hands on her hips, head cocked to the side. “Come. I cannot get it zipped all the way.”

Viktor abandons the dress rack and joins Lilia in the dressing room, yanking the zipper up with a strong tug. After a few tries, it finally budges.

“Careful.”

“I am.” Viktor steps back. “It looks beautiful.” No sequins, no ruffles, no lace, and certainly no feathers, but it suits her well—elegant, sleek, no-nonsense.

“Hmm,” Lilia frowns, studying herself intently in the mirror. Viktor plops down on the padded chair in the corner, elbows on his knees and chin in his palms.

“Yuuri liked my white tux.”

Lilia sighs. “You did look very handsome.”

“Oh.” His eyes flick upwards. Lilia’s expression has not changed, but he grins. “Thank you.”

“Mm. How is your Yuuri getting along with Baba Yaga?”

A laugh bubbles up Viktor’s throat. “Surprisingly well, actually. She loves him. I think.”

“She has a… strong personality.” Lilia looks like she’s swallowed something unpleasant.

“She is certainly a Feltsman.”

“Well,” Lilia huffs, turning sideways in the mirror and smoothing down the satin at her waist, “it is a good thing she is staying with you. I would have thrown her out on the sidewalk days ago.”

“Oh, she’s not _that_ bad.”

“She has never liked me,” Lilia excuses, waving a hand in the air. “Natasha was always much better at dealing with her than I was.”

Viktor smirks. “I doubt Natasha likes her very much either.”

Lilia barks a gleeful laugh. “She drives Natasha up the wall!”

“Well,” Viktor sighs, leaning back against the dressing room wall and crossing his legs in front of him. “At least she seems happy to see you and Yakov back together.”

“Yes,” Lilia muses, folding her arms over her chest. “As mad as she was when we got married, it was worse when we divorced. Or so Yakov says.”

Viktor’s fingers play with the tips of his shoelace. His eyes roam the necklines of the rejected dresses hung on the wall. “She wants him to be happy.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

For a moment, Viktor thinks that must be the end of it. After a heavy pause he is ready with a comment about trying on a few more dresses, but Lilia continues.

“We never talked about it.”

Viktor’s back straightens and he jerks his gaze back toward her. He finds her green eyes fixed on him, not wavering for a second. It takes Viktor a moment to understand that _we_ means the two of them.

He blinks. “No, I suppose we didn’t.” Yakov moved out even before the papers were signed. Viktor found a nice studio apartment that he could afford with money he earned in his first year of Seniors. That was that.

Lilia frowns. “Should we have?”

“I don’t know,” Viktor admits. “What was there to say?”

“I don’t know.”

Dressing room chairs are uncomfortable and Lilia towers over him. Viktor fidgets in his seat.

“I knew you were… unhappy.”

“Yes,” Lilia agrees, and Viktor appreciates the honesty.

Still, there’s a ghost of uncertainty in her eyes as she looks down at Viktor. She clears her throat.

“We fought a lot in those years. Didn’t we?”

Viktor’s throat constricts. He feels like a child. It’s silly. “Yes,” he manages, because it’s the truth and it hangs in the air between them for a long moment. Lilia looks at him like she knows. Like she understands more about him than he does.

Then she speaks again, and the moment breaks.

“Well, it will not be like that again this time. We are much too old for such nonsense. I like to think we have learned from our mistakes.”

Viktor smiles. “Yes, Lilia Ivanovna.”

And that’s that.

“The dress really does look beautiful on you,” Viktor adds.

“Hm,” she muses, adjusting the neckline. “I think I agree. But I want to try on a few more.”

There’s an implied enthusiasm, Viktor knows, in Lilia even suggesting that they continue the search. Considering he practically had to drag her here, it warms him from the inside out. He beams.

“I saw few more on the rack that might look good. I can go grab them. Do you need help with the…?”

“I’ve got it,” she waves him off. As he ducks past the curtain, he hears her calling behind him, “And remember n—”

“No lace, ruffles, sequins, crystals, or v-necks,” he chuckles. “I know!”

…

Viktor is, first and foremost, an artist.

Yes, he is an athlete, and he wears this title proudly. He was on the cover of Sports Illustrated and the ESPN Body issue; he can subsist for months on a diet of steamed vegetables and lean protein; his overtaxed knees creak and crack when he stands up in the morning.

But still, Viktor is an artist at his core, and as an artist he begins with a sketch—a concept, an image, a vision of what he wants the final product to be. He closes his eyes and he can see it, blocks everything else and he can feel it. Every single program he has choreographed started like this, as a few lines of melody in his head and a few graceful movements waiting in his muscles, and ended as a polished work of art etched on competitive ice.

From the moment he took charge of Yakov and Lilia’s wedding, he has been creating the day in his head. The ceremony, the decor, the menu, the atmosphere: he knows what he wants this to be.

When Lilia was forty, her wealthy parents passed away and left her, their only child to whom they still spoke, their elegant, two-story apartment in the center of the city, barely four blocks from the Mariinsky Theatre. The first time Viktor had laid his eyes on the gold-detailed walls and the Victorian furniture his jaw had hit the ground. He had yet to see the inside the Winter Palace, but he had always imagined it just like this. Yakov had looked humorously out of place, Viktor remembers, in his drab grey trench coat straight out of the _kommunalka_ , but Viktor could think of no more fitting a home for Tsarina Lilia Ivanovna.

This apartment has lost some of its regal magic since then. The ceilings, though high by any normal standards, do not seem as lofty as they had when Viktor was ten. The cushions of the antique sofa are frayed on the ends from the month when Makkachin’s teeth came in. The finish on the dining room table is scuffed and worn from decades of plates and knives and spills. Still, at this point in his life, Viktor will trade untouchable opulence for worn-in familiarity any day.

When Viktor imagines a second wedding for Yakov Feltsman and Lilia Baranovskaya, he can only picture it here. The living and dining rooms are open to one another, a spacious gathering place with floor-to-ceiling windows that face west over Voznesensky Prospekt. Between the windows, the hardwood floors, and the white-painted, gold-detailed walls, the room is perpetually bright and welcoming, a perfect canvas for Viktor’s imagination to run wild.

He wakes at five a.m. the morning of the wedding, though he was in and out of sleep most of the night. Yuuri woke up with him a few times, coaxing him back to sleep with his fingers in Viktor’s hair and his face buried in the crook of Viktor’s arm. When the alarm finally goes off, Viktor springs from bed without snoozing it even once. He sets a record for the world’s quickest shower—well, perhaps just a personal best considering his five-step hair-care process—then gets dressed and heads to the kitchen to make a pot of tea. As the leaves steep, he pores over his notebook, flipping the pages between four different to-do checklists, a spreadsheet of expenses, and a color-coded schedule breaking the entire day into fifteen-minute blocks.

Liza Leonidovna joins Viktor at the kitchen island just as he hears Yuuri turn on the shower.

“There’s tea on the stove,” Viktor greets. “Jam is in the fridge.” He has already set out two extra mugs on the counter, one for her and one for Yuuri.

“I know why I get up at this ungodly hour,” she muses as she pours her tea, “but what’s your excuse?” A few mornings ago, she explained that she has not been able to sleep a minute past five-thirty since her seventieth birthday.

“I’m pre-geriatric,” he deflects, straightening one of his knees for emphasis. The _pop_ echoes in the early morning silence.

Liza Leonidovna snorts and spoons raspberry jam into her tea. “Wait until it’s every joint on your body, young man. Your hips are next.”

Yuuri joins them a few minutes later, coming up behind Viktor and resting his head on his husband’s shoulder. Yuuri’s hair is wet against Viktor’s ear and his breath minty-fresh.

“Ready for the big day?”

“As ready as I can be.”

Yuuri slides onto the barstool next to Viktor, leaning over Viktor’s elbow and squinting at the colorful fifteen-minute squares on the page before him.

“Remember what we talked about, okay?”

“I will,” Viktor promises, and he means it. _You need to delegate,_ Yuuri had said a few nights ago, curled up on the couch and watching Viktor compile yet another mile-long to-do list, and Viktor had not disagreed. Now, he smirks and flips the page, sliding the notebook in front of Yuuri. “This is Yura’s to-do list. And Georgi’s, and Mila’s, and…”

“Mine.”

“Yes.”

“Mine is quite long.”

“You know how hard _delegating_ is for me, Yuuri,” he teases, screwing up his face as if he’d said a dirty word. Yuuri does know—everyone knows. He’d choreographed, commissioned the music, and helped design the costume for every one of his programs in the final eight years of his skating career. “These jobs were too important to give it to someone I didn’t trust with at least my life.”

Yuuri is grinning, and Viktor knows he doesn’t mind. “Awfully dramatic, don’t you think?”

“Well. You know me.”

“I’ll make sure this gets done,” Yuuri promises, and pecks a cheek on his husband’s cheek. “You made tea?”

“Of course. Jam is in the fridge.”

Yuuri shoots Viktor a dirty look over his shoulder. Viktor laughs.

… 

Some hours later, with the sun high in the sky, Viktor and Georgi stand with their arms crossed appraising at the empty living space in Yakov and Lilia’s apartment. The bride and groom have been forbidden from this room until the start of the ceremony, but they certainly noticed Yakov’s two retired students carting all of their fancy furniture to the newly-vacant guest room down the hall. Yuri will put up a fit when he sees, Viktor predicts. They stacked the dining room set under a heavy-metal band poster and placed the Victorian sofa next to a chest of drawers still half-full of the young skater’s belongings. Lilia quirked a questioning eyebrow when she saw them struggling with a love-seat in the hallway, but otherwise said nothing.

Now, with the room fully empty and a bag full of supplies in hand, it is time to start decorating. Yuuri is in charge of meeting the van from the chair and table rental service at the front of the building and then carting the temporary furniture upstairs. He’s scheduled to arrive in a half-hour, and Viktor has a list of twenty-two things he wants done before then.

He’s three fifteen-minute blocks behind his schedule, soon to be four if he and Georgi don’t begin decorating soon. Not that he’s counting.

“Is Natalya coming?” Viktor asks as they secure a few temporary hooks to the wall.

“Yes!” Georgi beams. “She was able to get off work after all. She said she wouldn’t want to miss it. She’s quite the romantic.”

“Oh?” Viktor fights a smile. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“I should warn you,” Georgi muses as they move on to the next hook, “she will probably try to convince you to plan our wedding.”

Viktor laughs. “I think this will be my last wedding, for a while. At least until Yuuri and I renew our vows.”

“That’s what I told her. But she will still try, I’m sure.”

“When is the wedding again?”

Georgi sighs heavily. “We want to do it on a boat, out on the bay, but they book years in advance and we don’t want to wait that long. We will see. No matter what, we know that love will prevail.”

“I have no doubt that it will.”

Yuuri arrives with the chairs and tables just as Viktor and Georgi put the finishing touches on the lighting, and the caterers follow soon after. He directs them to the kitchen, helps set up chairs with one hand and holds up his phone with the other to check on Yuri and Mila’s ETA with the cake.

“Traffic,” Yuri grunts. “The cab’s taking fucking forever. Maybe if you didn’t insist on getting it from a bakery on the other side of the goddamn _city—”_

“They have the best buttercream,” Viktor protests. “How is the cake?”

“It’s… alright,” Mila responds, and Viktor’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline.

“Is it melting? Dear god, Mila, tell me the icing isn’t melting.”

“Well, the air conditioning in this taxi isn’t the best, but—”

“ _Dammit,”_ Viktor hisses, and across the room he sees Yuuri straighten and swivel his head in his husband’s direction. Viktor waves a reassuring hand and turns away.

“It will be fine,” Mila promises.

“Stop worrying,” Yuri clips. “Do you _want_ to have any hair left at the end of today?”

“Just. Protect the cake. Okay?”

Viktor flips the phone shut and fixes a smile on his face. “Everything alright?” Yuuri asks, and Viktor nods.

“Just some traffic issues. They will be here.”

“Okay but um, Vitya? There aren’t enough chairs.”

Viktor freezes. “What?” Yuuri grimaces.

“You ordered twenty, right? There are only fifteen.”

Viktor blinks, scans the room, and quickly tallies fifteen chairs.

“Oh. Well.” He blinks again. Takes a shallow breath. “That is very frustrating.”

“I’m so sorry, I should have counted them right when they dropped them off. We can grab the dining room chairs?” Yuuri suggests, his tone oddly delicate. “There’s four, right? And maybe a desk chair from upstairs. It doesn’t matter if they don’t match.”

“Ah.” Viktor searches the room again, counts the chairs again—thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. “No, I suppose it doesn’t matter. I will, um. I will go get them.”

The guest room is a mess of furniture with the dining room chairs buried toward the back. They are much larger, and completely off of the color scheme, from the chairs they rented for the ceremony and dinner. _It doesn’t matter,_ Viktor reminds himself, and starts maneuvering through the maze of displaced furniture.

His phone rings. He blinks at the name on the screen and answers.

“Evgeni?”

“Ah, Viktor,” comes a voice across the line, scratchy and hoarse. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

Viktor’s heart sinks in his chest. “You are sick.” A wet cough confirms his fears, and Viktor holds the phone a few inches from his ear.

“I just woke up like this. I can’t even get out of bed, let alone play. I’m so sorry, Viktor, I know you were relying on me.”

“Ah.” Viktor swallows, his fingers cold around his phone case. “I am very sorry to hear that.”

“I’ll refund you in full as soon as I get the chance. And I can pass along a few phone numbers of some friends of mine that might be able to step in. Unfortunately none of them play the harp, but Prelude in C sounds beautiful on cello or violin as well?”

Lilia loves the harp. Viktor has been holding onto this bit of information since he was sixteen.

“That would be good. Thank you, Evgeni.”

“Of course. I’ll email you their contact information. They might not be available since it’s so last minute, but…”

“I will check. I hope you feel better.”

“Thank you. Good luck.”

Twenty minutes and four more phone calls later, something heavy has settled in Viktor’s stomach and refuses to budge. The cellist was out of town. The violinist already had a gig. The flautist's number went directly to voicemail. And the final number was one of a pianist, but there is no piano in the apartment.

Viktor has never been one to lash out in anger or frustration. He rarely even raises his voice. Yet in that moment, he is about three seconds from throwing his phone at the wall just to watch it shatter.

“What are you doing in here?”

Viktor’s back straightens and his head swivels to the doorway. There, leaning up against the frame with his arms crossed, is the absolute last person Viktor wants to see right now.

“Just making some phone calls. Everything is fine.” He tries to give a reassuring smile, but the words come out through gritted teeth.

Everything is fine. The cake is melting, they have no music, they’re short a quarter of their chairs _,_ and Viktor is an hour and fifteen minutes behind schedule. He hasn’t even checked in with the caterers yet to ensure everything is there, and he can only assume it isn’t. Viktor is watching his artistic vision crumble before his eyes.

But yes, everything is fine.

“This place is a mess,” Yakov grunts, weaving through the upturned furniture to approach where Viktor sits at the side of the bed.

“It’s only temporary. We’ll put everything back.”

“Hmm.” Yakov leans against the bedpost, scrutinizing Viktor as he so often did before he stepped out on the ice. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong or should I guess?”

“Oh, just a few hiccups,” Viktor replies, but the second the words echo back to him he knows Yakov will not buy it.

He’s right. Yakov quirks an eyebrow and continues to stare Viktor down, not blinking even once. Viktor holds on a few more moments before he lets the façade drop entirely—his shoulders slump like a marionette with the strings cut, his fingers coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“We don’t have any music.”

“ _Humph_ _._ And what did you try to do, Vitya, order a chamber ensemble?”

“No,” he is quick to deny, an unwelcome and unflattering sharpness in his voice. He tries to reign it in. “Just a harpist.”

There’s a whoosh of breath to Viktor’s left and he peeks up, bringing his hands away from his face. Yakov nods. “Ah. I see.”

Lilia loves the harp. Yakov knows this, too.

“He just called. He woke up sick. It’s past noon, who doesn’t wake up until _noon?_ ” Viktor huffs. “Have you ever heard Bach’s Prelude in C on the harp, Yakov? She would have loved it.”

“True,” Yakov admits. “But you know she isn’t picky.”

“Lilia? Not _picky?”_

“Not when it comes to classical music.”

“Baroque.”

“Baroque, Classical, Romantic, whatever.”

Something about Yakov’s _whatever_ stikes Viktor the wrong way and suddenly he is up off the bed, standing, pacing the three feet of space around him that isn’t blocked by displaced furniture.

“I don’t know what to do,” he admits, throwing his hands in the air. “I called four other musicians. None of them could make it. What are we going to do, play it off of YouTube?”

“Vitya, you could play the goddamn Internationale as she walked up the aisle and neither of us would care.”

Yakov surely means this to be comforting, but the words are like a punch in the gut.

“Ah. I see.”

“Vitya…”

“No, no. That is fine. We have music covered, then. And after the ceremony, we can sit on the floor instead of in chairs and dip the cake in the melted icing like soup.”

“ _Vitya…”_

Viktor’s chest is tight and his stomach churns and burns with acid and his fingers are balled into fists at his side. Usually, when he gets like this, worked up to the point of bursting, he is able to focus on something to contain himself. Smiling widely for the cameras. Landing one last jump correctly, even if it’s only a single. Yuuri’s warmth at his side.

But right now, he’s stopped pacing, and Yakov stands right there in front of him, and Viktor just keeps hearing _neither of us would care._

And then Yakov heaves a deep, long-suffering sigh and rubs his fingers against his temples. “Why are you getting so worked up about this?” he asks, and it’s just runny icing on the cake. Viktor grinds his teeth.

“Why?” He barks a cold laugh. “Because this is _important,_ Yakov.”

“To _who?”_ Yakov bites back.

“To all of us—”

“To _you,_ Vitya.”

Yakov’s words sound like an accusation, and dammit, Viktor is so tired of holding back. His stomach churns, his throat burns, and he’s suddenly spitting all that vitriol back at his former coach.

“Maybe!” he cries, throwing his hands in the air and running them through his hair. “Fine! Maybe this is important to me, and why shouldn’t it be? You got divorced, Yakov. _Divorced._ And now, after all these years, I can finally—”

Viktor cuts himself off mid-breath, his eyes blown wide and his tongue burning. What would he have said, if he’d continued? He isn’t sure he knows.

“You can what, Vitya?”

The way Yakov says his name, gentle on the _t_ and long around the _ya,_ sounds almost like an apology. Viktor is suddenly tired down to his bones. There is so much to do, but he just wants to sleep.

He sinks back down onto the mattress with a heavy sigh. “I don’t know, help fix it?”

Yakov still hasn’t moved from his spot against the bedpost, but he drops his crossed arms to his sides and cocks his head to the side. He squints, studying Viktor as he so often did on those early mornings that Viktor showed up to practice with bags under his eyes, as if assessing whether Viktor was even fit to skate.

“Come,” Yakov grunts, inclining his head toward the door and heading toward it without another word.

“Where are we going?”

Yakov doesn’t reply. He leads Viktor out the door toward the base of the winding staircase. Down the hall, Viktor can hear the clank of pots and pans in the kitchen, and he barely restrains himself from taking off down the hall to check on the caterers.

“Vitya,” Yakov calls from the top of the staircase, and Viktor tears himself away to bound after him.

By the time he climbs the stairs and turns the corner into Yakov’s study, the coach is already pouring his favorite vodka into two glass tumblers.

“Yakov, I—” Viktor cuts himself off, tucking his bangs behind his ear and letting his eyes sweep over the room, so familiar yet so different at the same time. Most of the furniture is the same, but arranged slightly differently after being moved out, then moved back in again. “I don’t have time for a drink.”

“Sure you do. The ceremony isn’t for another, what, four hours?”

“Yakov—”

“Besides,” Yakov interrupts, “you’re going to have to drink something while you help me pick out a song. This could take a while.” He holds out one glass to Viktor and inclines his head to his left. Viktor’s gaze settles on the wall of shelves that houses Yakov’s extensive record collection.

Behind Yakov, on a table that is more like a pedestal, sits the antique record player that belonged to Yakov’s father. Even after a century of use and disuse, the bell-shaped gramophone horn still shines like gold. Viktor’s eyes widen.

“You’d let us use that?”

“If I can do the setup, yes.”

“Oh. That— Thank you.” It’s not live music, but it’s at least classier than YouTube hooked up to a portable bluetooth speaker.

Yakov thrusts the glass toward Viktor once again and inclines his head toward the armchair. “Sit. Drink. We will start with this one.” He pulls out a record from the shelf—across the sleeve is written _St. Petersburg Philharmonic Orchestra: the 1998-1999 Season._ Yakov withdraws the record as if it were a priceless artifact and places it on the turntable; he sets the needle, checks the speaker, and presses start.

The room fills with the hum of the strings section, performing something Viktor suspects may be Shostakovich. Yakov drags his desk chair closer to the record player and sits, his arms crossed over his chest.

“I’m sure we can find something suitable.”

Viktor hums, taking a sip from the tumbler. The vodka burns his throat and warms his stomach. “Not this one. Too moody for a wedding.”

Yakov nods his assent and skips the needle forward, picking up in the middle of another tune—or just another movement of the same piece? Viktor would not pretend to know the difference.

“Vitya. You and Katsuki. You must fight?”

The question catches Viktor so off guard that he physically recoils. He glances at Yakov with narrowed eyes. “Yuuri and I are fine.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

And Viktor knows that—but it’s the principle of the thing. Still, he cannot lie to Yakov. Not about this. “Sometimes we have… disagreements,” he acquiesces.

“And what do you _disagree_ about?”

Viktor traces his forefinger around the rim of the glass. Around and around. “Well. Yuuri doesn’t like it when I put dishes in the dishwasher without rinsing them first. And I don’t like it when he spends so much time gaming. And once we—” He frowns. “Well, it’s silly.”

Yakov quirks an eyebrow.

“We— well, we got in a stupid fight about whose turn it was to take Makka out, early last season.” Viktor scratches the back of his head and looks anywhere but at his coach. “We were both so tired and I thought it was his turn and he thought—” _that I was overextending myself again by coaching and competing at the same time and—_ “Well, it doesn’t matter, she ended up peeing all over the couch. _Suede_ , Yakov. We had to get it reupholstered. It was such a stupid fight.”

“And did either of you ever blame the dog?”

Viktor’s spine straightens, his eyes snapping to Yakov’s schooled expression. “What?! Why would we blame her, it’s not her fault that we—”

And then, halfway through that thought, he gets it. His voice dies in his throat.

“Ah,” he says, his mouth warped into a frown. “Really, Yakov? You’re equating me to my incontinent dog?”

For a moment, Yakov looks like he might laugh. He doesn’t. “Vitya,” he sighs, running a hand through his thinning hair, and Viktor wonders for the hundredth time if that isn’t why his coach has gone nearly bald. “What happened with Lilia and I was not your fault.”

“I know that,” Viktor rushes to say, because he _does_. It’s important to him that Yakov know this.

“Okay,” Yakov huffs, “then why are you acting like you don’t?”

There’s not much Viktor can say to that, really. He takes a sip from the glass, and Yakov follow suit. Silence reigns for a few loaded seconds.

“Have you talked to your mother lately?”

Viktor chokes, just a little, and the alcohol stings the back of his nose. He coughs, but it doesn’t help. “What, um.” He clears his throat. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Yakov reaches out to the turntable to skip past a particularly fast gigue. “Nothing,” he says, then shrugs. “Unless it does.”

“It doesn’t,” Viktor insists, and then, for good measure, reiterates: “This isn’t about my parents.”

And it really isn’t, Viktor thinks. His parents were different, and so unimaginably long ago. It feels like a different lifetime, those last two years he spent in his childhood home, when the fighting got so bad he stuffed tissues in his ears just so he could try to fall asleep. It was about money, always about money, which meant it was about his skating. The last fight, Viktor remembers, had been about Yakov’s coaching fee.

He’d held out hope, once upon a time, that it was only temporary. That was before he understood what it meant to be divorced; before he understood what it meant to have signed papers, to have moved out, to have moved all the way to Moscow. They fought, but they always made up. Until they didn’t.

(Last year, he’d stood in front of a postbox with two envelopes clutched in hand. In the end, only one made it inside. He got the call two weeks later, from an unfamiliar number with a Moscow area code.)

"Come now, Vitya, a destination wedding? You can't really expect me to go all that way."

Viktor didn't know how to explain that this was the opposite of a destination wedding. Destination implied a vacation, somewhere far away from everything he knows. Somewhere other than Hasetsu beach and the Yu-topia dining room, somewhere other than the town and the family and the boy he'd come to call home.

"I know you dislike flying," Viktor conceded, and placed the excuse right in her lap out of habit even though he knew he shouldn't. It was just easier that way.

"But when you are back in Russia, maybe we can get together." In the background, he could hear a deep voice he did not recognize.

Viktor swallowed. "Maybe."

They didn't.)

“Right,” Yakov snorts, swilling a sip of vodka in his cheeks and swallowing heavily. “Nothing to do with that at all.”

Viktor ought to protest, but he doesn’t quite find the energy. A new piece has begun to echo from the speakers, opening with a frantic melody of arpeggiated chords. It only puts Viktor further on edge, and luckily Yakov skips it quickly in favor of something that sounds more like a lullaby.

“I suppose it’s a decade too late for an apology,” Yakov sighs, leaning forward with his elbows perched on his knees. He stares down at the glass in his hands, swirling the liquid around the base. “But we shouldn’t have argued like we did. In front of you. We should have known better. That is my fault, and Lilia’s—but mostly mine.”

Something about this not-quite-apology sits heavy and uncomfortable on Viktor’s shoulders. His jaw tightens. “I was living here practically for free. I never would have expected you to hide in your own home.”

“It was your home too, for those years,” Yakov corrects, and Viktor thinks about the room downstairs—today filled to the brim with miscellaneous furniture but still littered with Yuri Plisetsky’s belongings. Viktor can picture it well, though, with his own skate bag in the corner and Stéphane Lambiel and Yuna Kim posters on the wall. “You deserved better. I can at least admit that now. And we would have broken up whether you lived with us or not. Even when you weren’t around, we found something to fight about.”

Yakov has never spoken to him like this—with a tinge of regret in his voice, a guarded apology in his eyes. It’s almost too much. “I know that,” Viktor whispers, looking away. "Logically, anyway.”

“Hm.” Yakov leans back in his desk chair. “Is that what this has all been about, then? Paying off some sort of debt?”

Viktor’s head snaps upward. “No,” he is quick to reassure. “I just wanted to do something nice.” Yakov’s words from downstairs return to him as if whispered in his ear, _to you, whatever, neither of us would care._ He suddenly feels a terrible sort of selfish. “If this really isn’t what you wanted, I’m sorry. I just thought…”

He doesn’t know what he thought; he hasn’t really stopped to _think,_ in all honesty. He leaves the sentence unfinished.

“It’s true that Lilia and I would have been happy with just a trip to the registration office,” Yakov admits, and the words sink Viktor’s heart. “But we will be _very_ happy with whatever you have planned, I’m sure. It will at the least be quite memorable.”

When Viktor looks up, he finds traces of a smile hinting at Yakov’s mouth. It’s so rare, seeing the older man with such poorly disguised affection on his face. Viktor isn’t sure what to do with it. He swallows.

There is static for a moment from the record player as one piece draws to a close. The next opens softly, the gentle notes of a harp filling the room and lighting Viktor’s face. He recognizes it instantly.

“This one always made me think of her,” he admits before he can stop himself. Torino had been his very first Olympics, when he was barely out of the junior division, and Lilia had choreographed him a masterpiece of a free skate for the season set to this very piece: Saint-Saëns’s _The Swan_ for harp and violin. The familiar melody sings out from the speaker and he can feel the opening movements lying latent in his body.

“This one, then?”

Yakov’s question startles Viktor from his reverie. “Oh. Well, I mean. Just because it makes me think of her doesn’t mean… This isn’t about me. I don’t even know if she likes it. She might be sick of it, after all the choreography she did.”

“Please,” Yakov scoffs, “Lilia has choreographed for every song on this record so far. This is a perfect piece for today. Don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Viktor whispers, feeling something settle within him.

“Alright, then it’s decided.” Just like that, Yakov lifts the needle from the vinyl and the music cuts off. “Help me move it downstairs?”

Viktor frowns. “I don’t want you to see the living room yet.”

“I’ll cover my eyes.”

“You can’t—”

“Vitya,” Yakov sighs, “I will see it soon enough.”

“Alright,” Viktor acquiesces. He sets the tumbler, still with a swig of liquid at the bottom, on the end table. “And, um. Thank you. This will be… It will be good.” Only minutes ago he felt like his artistic vision had been crumbling around him, but now, with a few minor adjustments and his mind refocused, he can picture it as clearly as ever.

“Oh. One more thing,” Yakov begins, slipping his hand into his pocket to reveal a small velvet box. “Can you hold onto this for me until I need it during the ceremony?”

Viktor reaches out, slowly, and takes the box into his palm, cracking the lid to take a peek inside. Just as he suspected, the ring he’d seen on Lilia’s finger for years lies snugly inside, polished and gleaming.

“Ah,” he says, and it comes out much less dignified than he’d hoped. “Yes. Thank you, I will… I’ll do that.”

Yakov nods. Viktor smiles. And that’s that.

…

The ceremony, in the end, is a thing of beauty. A careful hand places a needle atop vinyl, presses start, and suddenly the room is filled with music, undulating waves of harp floating from the polished gramophone bell set up in the corner. Just as the violin begins to sing its melody, Lilia appears in the entryway, as elegant as a swan in her sleek-white satin dress that flows all the way to the ground. She is all sharp cheekbones and angular limbs, but there’s something inexplicably and unusually soft about her as she walks down the aisle. She holds a bouquet of lilies between her palms.

If Lilia is elegant, her living room is decorated to match. White cloth-covered chairs, some unfortunately mismatched, have been arrayed with a carpeted aisle running up the center, seating family and friends and everyone in between. Drapes of white satin and strings of fairy lights swoop across the walls and lead the eye to the front of the room, the end of the aisle, where beams of golden evening sunlight filter through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The officiant, a man that Viktor had found well-reviewed on Craigslist, waits patiently with his hands clasped in front of him. Yakov, dressed in his sharpest black suit, stands beside him with his jaw hanging just a bit lower than normal. He doesn’t blink once until Lilia comes to stand in front of him.

The violin holds its final note, the harp slows gently to cycle through its final arpeggiated chord, and then the record player crackles with silence. Someone hits the off switch and the officiant asks the small audience to be seated.

Their vows are simple and traditional, uncreative but timeless just the same. Most of the words Viktor has heard from Yakov’s mouth have been grumbled or gruff or shouted across an ice rink, so he almost does not recognize his coach’s voice as it goes quiet and solemn, audible from the audience but really meant only for Lilia.

When he finishes, he glances to Viktor in the front row. That’s his cue—Viktor stands, opens the velvet box, and offers Yakov the ring nestled inside. When Viktor sits back down he feels Yuuri’s hand intertwine with his, just as Yakov slips the ring on Lilia’s finger.

Lilia then does the same, speaking her vows in a voice rounded on the edges and receiving the ring from Yuri before slipping it on Yakov’s hand to match. Viktor wonders what it feels like, after all these years—maybe strange, maybe familiar, maybe even like coming home.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the officiant declares. Then they kiss, everyone claps and cheers, and Viktor hears a sniffle to his right where Yakov’s mother is sitting. Yakov and Lilia turn back to the audience with smiles as wide as the sun, their hands joined between them. Viktor does not think he has ever, in the past twenty-some years, seen them this unabashedly happy. They walk together down the aisle, back through the entryway, and up the stairs to get changed into something less formal. Something warm and light perches on Viktor’s ribcage as he watches them go.

Once the newlyweds disappear, everyone moves their chairs to the other half of the room where the tables have been set for dinner. Viktor darts into the kitchen to check on the state of the food and finds the man and a woman from the catering company busy with two stove burners running and a number of serving dishes at the ready. Viktor darts past them to the refrigerator, looking past the (fortunately intact) two-tier cake to the eight bottles of champagne that have been chilling near the back. The caterers help him bring the bottles into the dining room, where Yakov and Lilia are already seated in more comfortable clothing.

They pop the bottles to a chorus of cheers, passing around the wine so that everyone can fill their flutes as the caterers bring out the first course. Just as they finish, before anyone has the chance to begin to eat, the sharp sound of a knife rapping against glass cuts through the jovial chatter.

“Excuse me,” Liza Leonidovna interrupts as she gets to her feet. She is nearly the same height standing as everyone else is sitting. “I know we agreed no speeches, but frankly I think that’s ridiculous and I have something to say. Does anyone have a problem with that?”

She fixes her son with a meaningful stare, and he fidgets but says nothing. She beams.

“Wonderful! Now. Yasha, Lilia. I think you know that I was not very happy when I found out the two of you had gotten married the first time. And I was _certainly_ not happy when I later found out you were divorcing instead of just learning to communicate.”

Viktor gulps, fidgets his hands in his lap, and prays to whatever god will listen that everything isn’t about to go off the rails.

“ _However,”_ she continues, and Viktor exhales a soft sigh of relief, “it’s because of all that that I get to be here today to witness this. At my age, you think you’ve seen everything. I didn’t expect this, but I am grateful.”

She smiles, Yakov nods in acknowledgement, and then she turns toward Viktor who freezes instantly in his seat. Yuuri’s fingers join Viktor’s under the table in a show of silent support.

“Viktor Mikhailovich,” she begins, and for a moment Viktor is sure he’s about to be yelled at. “I am well aware that none of this would have happened if my son and Lilia had been left to their own devices. I know a lot of work went into planning all of this. So, a round of applause for Vitya, yes?”

Viktor’s cheeks turn beet red as everyone claps. He isn’t sure where to look so he turns to Yuuri, who has pulled his hand away from Viktor’s to applaud him properly. His eyes shine with love and crinkle at the edges with his smile.

“You know,” Liza Leonidovna muses as the applause dies down, her gaze scanning over Viktor, Yuuri, Mila, Yuri, and Georgi. “It’s funny, Yasha. I know I gave you and Lilia a hard time, but you ended up giving me grandchildren after all. Now, the food smells delicious, and I’m starving.” She lifts her glass. “To Yakov and Lilia!”

“To Yakov and Lilia,” everyone echoes, then they all take their first sips of champagne.

Viktor, though, lags behind the rest. The words come out barely mumbled, and he doesn’t manage to lift the glass to his stunned lips. He blinks, gaze not wavering from Yakov’s mother even as she sits down and begins to dig into the starter course. His cheeks flush even hotter.

Yuuri’s hand finds Viktor’s again—of course it does—and snaps him out of it. Yuuri smiles, picks up his spoon with his available left hand, and nearly misses his mouth when he tries to take his first spoonful of soup. Viktor laughs.

The food is delicious, all four courses of it, exactly as Viktor remembers from his and Yuuri’s extravagant anniversary-week tastings. Yakov hums in delight when he first tastes the lamb. Lilia fawns— _fawns—_ over the truffle pelmeni. Viktor hides his smiles behind his flute of champagne, but Yuuri sends him a knowing look every time their eyes meet.

After dinner they cut the cake, the delicious buttercream miraculously intact though a bit drooped around the edges. Inside is a moist lemon and elderflower sponge with a layer of raspberry jam, the slight bitterness from the lemon zest balanced perfectly by the sweetness from the jam and the icing—at least according to Georgi, who has found post-retirement inspiration in baking and has decided to open a bakery with his wife-to-be. While Georgi moans around a bite of cake, his fiancée Natalya, an art school graduate, explains the plans she has for their original cake designs.

Outside the windows, the sun has begun to set, but inside the Feltsman-Baranovskaya apartment the party is only just getting started. Viktor notices Yuri slip out of the dining room during dessert and a few minutes later the teenager returns with a stack of records in his arms. He stops whatever classical album was playing and replaces it with ‘The Greatest Hits of the 80s’ with a grin stretching across his face.

“So are we gonna dance, or are you all just planning on sitting there all night like losers?”

Viktor and Yuuri spring from their seats instantly, heading together to the empty half of the room that had been used for the ceremony only a few hours ago. If only Viktor had had the foresight to bring multicolored lights for their makeshift dance floor, but he supposes that he can't have thought of everything.

Yuuri is the best dancer in the entire universe, and that is a fact. He is good at everything. Ballet, of course, but also waltz, quickstep, cha-cha, salsa, pole (god, _pole)…_ And, apparently, swing dancing. Viktor follows along as best he can; after so many years, he has gotten very good at anticipating Yuuri’s movements. They dance so well together.

It would be foolish, though, for Viktor to think he could keep his lovely husband to himself all night. A few dances in, Liza Leonidovna taps him on the shoulder and asks to steal him away. Yuuri agrees with bright eyes and flushed cheeks (from the champagne or the dancing, Viktor can never tell), and gives Viktor a parting kiss, promising he will return to his husband the second a song comes on that so much as resembles a tango.

“I want to watch this,” Viktor chuckles as he sits down in the empty seat next to Yakov, whose cheeks are dusted red from dancing and whose wife has apparently been stolen away by his brother, whose own wife is dancing with Yuri.

“Oh, just wait,” Yakov says, and Viktor blinks in disbelief as Yakov’s mother begins to dance, looking as spritely and bouncy as a woman half her age. Over her (very short) shoulder, Yuuri shoots his husband an incredulous look before dancing along with her, and both Yakov and Viktor laugh.

“I hope I’m that agile at ninety,” Viktor muses.

Yakov grunts. “You and I have landed too many jumps for our joints to hold out as long as hers have.”

“Mm. What a shame.” Viktor takes a sip of wine. “Doesn’t my Yuuri look lovely out there?”

“He really can dance.”

“And yet you made fun of me all those months after the banquet.”

“You were pining like a teenager.”

“For good reason! Look at him move, Yakov. God, look at his _thighs.”_

Yakov snorts. “He’s not my type, Vitya.”

“He’s a ballet dancer, at least! Don’t you remember the first time you saw Lilia dance?”

“Ah,” Yakov replies, and Viktor is pretty sure he’s never heard Yakov sound _forlorn_ before, “it was 1978, I believe. She was Giselle. I’d never seen anything like it.”

Across the room, she is attempting to teach Sasha a basic step. It has been a long time since Lilia has taught any sort of beginner, and it looks like her patience could use some work.

“Congratulations. I don’t think I said that yet,” Viktor muses.

“Thank you.” Yakov leans back in the chair, not taking his eyes off of his wife. “It’s funny. Twenty years, and you think I’d have learned my lesson.”

Viktor frowns. “What lesson?”

“Never underestimate Viktor Nikiforov.”

Viktor straightens, unable to help the laugh that bubbles up from his chest. “So you like it? I was worried it would be too much.”

“So was I,” Yakov snorts. He slaps a hand on Viktor’s shoulder. “No, Vitya. It’s not too much at all. But…”

“But what?”

“There is no way this only cost two hundred thousand rubles.”

“Ah. Well. I am very thrifty,” says Viktor, who has never been accused of any such thing in his life. Yakov quirks an eyebrow, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Vitya.”

“Yakov. Consider it a wedding present.”

Something like doubt flashes in Yakov’s eyes. He wavers. “We talked about this earlier. You’ve done more than enough, you don’t…” Yakov sighs. “You don’t owe us anything.”

“I know that,” Viktor promises, meaning every word. “Think of it as a thank you present, then. For the past twenty years.”

Yakov bristles and rolls his eyes. “Stupid boy, you don’t have to thank—”

“I know,” Viktor interrupts. “I know. But I’m grateful, and showing that is important to me.”

It’s a bit of an understatement, but it will do.

The music changes and Lilia moves to dance with Yuuri. Barely a few bars into the new song and she already looks impressed, though her bar is currently set quite low thanks to Sasha’s lacking sense of rhythm.

“Are you going anywhere to celebrate? Just the two of you?” Viktor asks. He would say ‘honeymoon’, except that word now carries a spectacular sexual connotation for him and he cannot bring himself to apply it to Yakov and Lilia.

“I’m sure we could both use a trip to the beach,” Yakov admits. “But I’m not sure I can afford to take the time off.”

“I can fill in,” Viktor offers before he can stop himself. “With Yura and Mila, I mean.” He mostly expects Yakov to wave him off, but instead the older man pauses and looks like he’s genuinely considering it.

Either he’s really that desperate for a vacation, or he respects Viktor’s coaching skills more than he’s let on in the past.

“I’ve been working on my Yakov impression,” Viktor continues, unable to stand the silence. “I’ve basically got a mini Yakov in my head twenty-four seven, yelling at me whenever my edges are sloppy or I eat a second helping of katsudon. I’ll just channel him to Yura and Mila and it will be like you never left! Besides, I know they are working on building their programs for next season, and they’ve both asked me for choreography input—”

“Vitya.”

“Yes.”

Yakov pins him down with a pointed stare. “I’d actually been considering asking you. Now that you’re retired I mean.” He sighs heavily. “I’m getting old, Vitya, I can’t keep this up forever. I’m going to need some help, and I had been meaning to ask if you were interested.”

It becomes abundantly clear in that moment that, desperate for a vacation or not, Yakov does indeed value Viktor’s skills and input as a coach. As he should, of course; Viktor’s first and only student has earned many international medals under his tutelage. But a lot of the coaching techniques Viktor uses on his husband would be quite inappropriate applied to any other skater, so perhaps Yakov would be right to have doubts. After all, he’s had doubts from the beginning, and has been very vocal about them to the press, to his other skaters, and to Viktor’s face.

But the way Yakov is looking at him now, reservedly hopeful as he waits for Viktor’s response, makes Viktor feel like an equal. It is a relief to know that their relationship, now that Yakov is not Viktor’s coach and Viktor not Yakov’s pain-in-the-ass student, has room and potential to evolve. A part of him has spent the past few months fearing it would simply disintegrate.

“I would like that,” Viktor replies, and there’s no hiding the smile that tugs at the corner of Yakov’s mouth in response.

“Good. Discuss it on Monday?”

“Monday,” Viktor agrees, just as the song ends and Yuuri approaches them looking utterly exhausted. Lilia is right behind him and extends her arm to Yakov, tugging him back to the dance floor. Yuuri takes his seat, takes Viktor’s hand, and they lean back to watch Yuri and Mila, Georgi and Natalya, and Yakov and Lilia attempt the hustle.

“That looked like a serious conversation,” Yuuri observes. Viktor has to remind himself to focus on Yuuri’s words and form a reply; the kissable dusting of pink over his cheeks and nose is horribly distracting.

“He’s planning on decreasing his hours. Taking some time off.” Viktor twists Yuuri’s wedding ring around his finger, a habit he somehow managed to pick up in the past few years. Yuuri never complained, so Viktor never stopped. “He wants me to help fill in a bit. With Yura and Mila.”

Yuuri smiles, running his thumb over the edge of Viktor’s palm. “That is wonderful, Vitya.”

“You think so?”

“Of course.”

“You won’t be annoyed at having to share your coach sometimes?”

Yuuri leans in, presses a kiss to Viktor’s jaw, and whispers, “You’re all mine in every way that counts.” Yuuri’s breath is hot against Viktor’s neck and he suppresses a shiver. “Although, I do have one concern.”

“Hm?”

“Will this interfere with your second career as a wedding planner?”

“Ha. I think this is my last wedding for a while.”

“But you are so _good_ at it, Vitya.”

“What a shame.”

“You’ll just have to save all of your planning energy for when we renew our vows, then.”

Viktor perks up, whirling to face Yuuri and searching for any sign that he was joking. “Yuuri! I was just thinking we should do that! When? Our five-year anniversary? That’s four years from now, I don’t know if we can wait that long, and I also don’t want to ruin the surprise for when I propose to you!”

“Vitya!” Yuuri laughs and it sounds like bells, always an octave higher when he’s been drinking. “You don’t have to propose again to renew your vows!”

“But it’s the perfect opportunity, since I didn’t get to do it the first time! It’s only fair. Do you want another ceremony? We can elope? Oh, _Paris,_ Yuuri, I’ve always wanted to take you to Paris.”

“Hmm,” Yuuri hums, scooting his chair to be right next to Viktor’s and sliding an arm around his waist. “Why don’t you surprise me?”

“Yes,” Viktor whispers, breathless with excitement. “I can’t wait.”

The song has changed to some sort of ballade, and out on the dance floor Yakov and Lilia have begun to slow dance with their eyes locked on one another. Viktor has spent so many evenings with them in this very room, lounging on the sofa or doing stretches on the floor or eating at the dinner table that usually sits where Viktor and Yuuri sit now. They were always quiet evenings, sometimes relaxing but in later years filled with palpable tension. Viktor remembers them fondly, even still. He’d been so young, then, his hair hanging all the way down his back and Makkachin small enough to fit on top of his lap. He wonders what that boy would say, if he could be here now—sitting in the decorated living room beside his husband with their hands intertwined, watching Yakov and Lilia sway back and forth in each other’s arms as if that’s the only place they want to be.

A few feet away, Georgi and Natalya are slow dancing together as well. And because Yuuri is Yuuri, he stands, holds out his hand, and asks:

“Dance with me?”

And because Viktor is Viktor, he follows without a moment’s hesitation and replies, “Of course.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! It's Fanfic Writers Appreciation Day, so thank you to all of the authors reading, and a _huge_ thank you to the readers who support us  <3 It means a lot! 
> 
> I would love love love to hear what you thought!
> 
> come talk to me on tumblr at [stammiviktor](http://stammiviktor.tumblr.com/) :)


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